


Seed

by severinne



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Breathplay, Dark, M/M, Masturbation, Star Trek: AOS, Star Trek: TOS, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-06
Updated: 2010-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severinne/pseuds/severinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy has an unexpected reaction to his first encounter with Khan Noonien Singh. Written as something of an AOS remix/missing scene to the TOS episode 'Space Seed' in response to a too-filthy-to-resist prompt from Candesgirl :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candesgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candesgirl/gifts).



As soon as Jim arrived to meet his awakened patient, McCoy retreated to his office with a mumbled excuse, jaw clenched and eyes averted until the door sealed itself safely behind him and he could collapse against its secure barrier, limbs trembling with adrenaline and no small dose of arousal.

A flickering prick of pain caught his index finger and his awareness. The antique scalpel was still in his hand, every bit as sharp as he had suspected. So very sharp. _Fuck_.

McCoy took his bleeding finger into his mouth, stifling a moan by sucking at the gently seeping cut. His patient had very nearly killed him, and he had to worry for his fitness to serve in Starfleet if that rush of danger was having this effect on him, driving him to goad the man who had him by throat… God help him, he was getting to be as bad as Jim.

He let his finger slip from his spit-damp lips, dropping his hand just far enough to test for damage to his trachea. Whatever this man was, he had uncommonly powerful hands that were sure to leave bruises around his neck if left untreated.

Another surge of lust took him at the thought of wearing the stranger’s fingerprints around his throat – like a collar, a claim of conquest.

McCoy kept his lips pressed tight as he dropped the scalpel and reached into his pants with his free hand, the other vainly imitating the grip of that savage hand around his neck, applying an experimental squeeze of pressure as his shaking fingers fondled his erection beneath his clothes. With his shoulders braced to the door and his eyes screwed shut, McCoy could pretend the stranger was attacking him again, pinning him to the door and playing with his cock while considering his next move. He could see it now, the same heated contemplation that had crossed his strong features, darkened his deep brown eyes and made his full lips curl ever-so-slightly, like he had tasted McCoy’s fleeting fear beneath the defiance and found it pleasing.

But it was the defiance that had seemed to please him most. _I like a brave man_ , he had said in that accented hush of his so McCoy would choke down any outward show of terror at the man’s impossible strength and easy violence. He would push his hips into his captor’s hand, as needfully as he was now thrusting into his own touch, would hold his gaze even as he sank to his knees.

McCoy fell to his knees with a lot less grace than the image of himself in his mind without the muscled lines of the stranger’s thighs to guide him downward. He worked himself faster inside his pants and pressed his aching throat tighter, constricting his rapid breath until his mouth gaped into desperate gasps, waiting to be filled.

With a last strangled whine he released his neck before the lack of oxygen became too much, already regretting the lost pressure and bracing his hand on the floor behind him instead. The heel of his hand landed on something coldly sharp, and McCoy groaned softly at the unexpected sting of the fallen scalpel, hips rolling up into his rapid fingers, head dropping back with his bruised throat exposed to the stranger’s mercy as his come thickly coated his hand.

He clumsily retrieved his antique scalpel before falling back on his ass, slumped against the door and listening to the vague murmurs of Jim’s conversation with his patient outside, soft beneath his own rasping breaths. He needed to get the hell off the floor, get back to doing his damn job.

Drawing an unsteady breath, he gazed down at his hands – the right slick with semen, the left stained with blood, both as soiled as his pride.


End file.
